


but the blood runs deeper

by kaijuburgers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alphabet Meme, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Ficlet Collection, Gay Male Character, Gen, Ongoing Writing Exercise, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25696309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuburgers/pseuds/kaijuburgers
Summary: Warden Aeducan from A to Z. A collection of ficlets/shortfics that vaguely follows the order of DAO canon.
Relationships: Male Aeducan/Alistair (Dragon Age), Male Aeducan/Gorim Saelac
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. Aeducan

Egil had Aeducan blood in his veins and he had Aeducan blood on his hands. When Gorim came to him- telling him there was a way out of his fate- Egil’s first instinct had been to refuse. Egil didn’t deserve Gorim, and of that he was sure. He didn’t deserve mercy, just as he had never given any to Trian. Whatever scheme Lord Harrowmont had come up with to save his life should have been saved for a better man than him. 

“Please, my lord,” Gorim said, and the title stung even more than it had before. Egil had accepted long ago that outside of his quarters, the two of them would have to keep each other at arms length. But that had been when they’d had something to lose, back when Egil’s disinterest in producing an Aeducan heir would have meant something.

“Don’t call me that." The words slipped from Egil’s mouth before he had time to register them, and he could see Gorim flinch at the harshness of them. “I’m not. I’m not your lord any more.”

Gorim had looked at him with unspoken pain in his eyes before, but it felt so much worse after Egil had spoken and Egil felt something twist and turn in his stomach. He wanted to say something, anything that could ease it. But he had nothing, even as he stepped forward and closer to the cell bars, opening his mouth in the desperate hope that would make the words come to him. 

Instead, it was Gorim who spoke first.

“Please, _my heart,_ ” he said, and as Gorim whispered the words Egil realised Gorim had never called him that in front of anyone else before. Their voices may have been hushed and hurried whispers, the jailor too far to hear their conversation- much as he seemed he would have liked to from the glances he kept giving their way. But it was a first time, their last first time. Egil felt tears come to his eyes as Gorim continued. “ _Please_ , find the Wardens. For me.”

If it had been Egil’s choice alone, he realised as he gripped the cell bars tight enough that his knuckles turned white, he would have gladly gone into the Deep Roads to die. There was nothing he could do that would change the fact that as Trian had given his last breath, choking on the dark blood pooling in his mouth and throat, it had been Egil’s blade buried in him. Bhelen may have whispered the words to him, may have planted the seed, but it had been Egil’s hand that held the sword. If the Assembly had made the Deep Roads his fate, Egil would have gone to them gladly, cut down as many darkspawn as he could on his way, and then prayed that the Stone would still take him afterwards.

But for Gorim? For the way Gorim looked at him, looked into him as if he saw every part of Egil and still found something worth loving? For that, Egil would have fought through a whole Thaig of darkspawn. He would have faced an entire standing army. And he would even give up the death he deserved to find the Grey Wardens in the Deep Roads and join them. 

“Please,” Egil said eventually, and he hated how pathetic his voice sounded with the words. When he was a child, his father had told him that he should play the game of Dwarven politics expecting that every moment of weakness would be taken advantage of, to never let his armour loose for even a second, and when he had no other choice to carry out damage control as soon as possible. He’d repeated that lesson, over and over, until it wasn’t so much stuck in Egil’s head as it was a part of him. It felt wrong, being this weak and this sincere, especially where the guards could see him. But he’d already lost. Bhelen had already bested him. There was nothing left to lose.  Egil grip’s had loosened around the bars, and he reached through them with one arm. “Please. Just… Just hold me one last time.”

Every time Gorim looked at him, Egil wanted a way to carve it into his memories like the Shaperate into the Wall. Even when Gorim looked at him like this, like his heart was breaking in two, hesitating over each word he said. “The guards won’t keep quiet about something like that. Your family will know…”

“I don’t…” it felt like each sound was a moment away from being choked away and Egil trailed off, taking a moment to gather himself. There was too much to say, and too little time to say it. Too much history between the two of them- too many stolen kisses and covert nights and private moments to speak to. Even when he managed to find his words, they felt inadequate.  “I don’t want to act like I’m ashamed of you any more. Who cares what they think now?”

For as long as Egil could remember, all of their kisses had felt hurried. From their very first kiss- a rough passionate thing born from teenage lust and sparring- to the way they kissed when Egil took Gorim to bed- lips locking briefly and silently as Gorim slid his cock between Egil’s thighs- they had always kissed like there was only so much time left. And yet here- as two banished men in Orzammar's prison- Egil and Gorim kissed like there was nothing in the world except the two of them. Gorim cupped the back of Egil’s head with his hand, toying with the long braided blond hair between his fingers, while Egil's arms wrapped around Gorim’s waist and shoulders, pulling him as close as possible. Even when they parted for air they rested foreheads together, Gorim running his hands over Egil’s face like he was trying to dedicate every pore and freckle to memory.

“I’ll do it,” Egil whispered. He knew the guard was looking at the two of them, knew that what had passed between him and Gorim and the fact that his beard was wet from tears would rapidly become public gossip, but for once in his life, he didn’t care. “For you. I’ll find the Grey Wardens, and then I’ll come and find you on the Surface.”

“I know,” Gorim said, and even though Egil knew Gorim must have been full of as much empty bravado as he was, there was something in those words that made Egil believe him. He pulled away from their forehead touch, loosening his arms from around Egil as he backed away from the cell bars. “I know. And I’ll always love you, my lord.”

Gorim stepped away, vanishing into the darkness of the prison before Egil could say anything else.


	2. Blight

There had to have been a catch, Egil realised with a grimace. Of course there had to be a catch- a cost for being able to leave a past behind to enter the Wardens, something in exchange for the ability to combat the Blight. He should have suspected from the start, should have realised what was happening when they were out sent to the Wilds. Leaving Orzammar must have made him slow and foolish.

Egil had seen death before. _By the Stone-_ he’d done more than that. He’d delivered death out, he’d decided when it was time for it to come for another, he’d been the one to give the killing blow. Seeing another death-  when they had all come here knowing there was a risk, if not the nature of that risk \- it should have meant nothing to him.

But when Daveth fell to the ground, thrashing and screaming like nothing Egil had ever seen or heard before, Egil still felt sick to his stomach. If he could have moved- if it hadn’t felt like his legs were frozen in place as he watched Daveth gasp for breath, the movement of each convolution sharp as the cutting edge of a butcher’s knife- he was pretty sure he would have keeled over and vomited. There was somehow something wrong about it, wrong in the way that the corpse Egil had stolen a sword from in the Deep Roads had felt, wrong in the way the way the Roads themselves had felt, like there was something pulsating within them too far to ever reach. Egil had known Daveth was a dead man even before the Warden-Commander spoke.

“I am sorry, Daveth.”

He had known Ser Jory was a dead man in that moment too, known that he was soft and fearful and full of self-preservation. And in all honesty, he couldn’t blame the man. If Egil hadn’t come to the Wardens expecting death, maybe the blank look in the Warden-Commander’s eyes would have made him react the same way, made him draw his sword and back away, desperate to hold onto what he had of his past life.

“There is no turning back,” the Warden-Commander said, voice a low warning  as Ser Jory cowered against the stone wall.

Egil felt less sick when Ser Jory fell. Maybe it was the fact that Daveth had been the first human Egil had seen die, and that in itself had been the source of some of his revulsion. Maybe it was the manner of death, that when the Warden-Commander’s blade slid into Ser Jory’s stomach- a familiar slick sound as he twisted the blade- it didn’t feel wrong in the way that Daveth’s death had.

Blood pooled around Ser Jory’s corpse, but it was dark and red and familiar. It was so unlike the blood that flowed like a mountain spring from Daveth’s body, black as the night sky above them. Even on the journey from Orzammar, Egil still hadn’t become used to looking up and seeing the sky. When it was dark like it was then, with only the faint light of the two moons, it felt like he could get lost in it.

The Warden-Commander stepped towards Egil, one hand presenting the battered silver cup to him and the other resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

“The Joining is not yet complete.”

It felt familiar, almost, to be forced into a position where he had a choice that was no choice at all. A sword or a chalice- certain death or uncertain death. Egil gave a sidewards glance at the other Warden and the unease in his eyes, and found he could not feel it in himself. The arrogance of the bastard prince Egil once was rose within him, and he reached for the chalice before the Warden-Commander even offered it to him. 

When Egil came to afterwards, the pyres had already burned out.


	3. Clachen

He called Lothering a ‘clachen’ when they first approached, but from the way that Alistair stared at him in confusion, Egil was unsure if that was still a word that the cloudgazers still used. There was so much on the surface his only experience of was from books; dusty tomes that had been made their way into the Shaperate’s library countless years before. If his language was archaic, that wasn’t too surprising. If anything, he was glad that Alistair was present enough to be confused by something Egil was saying; in every moment since they’d lit the signal of the Tower of Ishal, Alistair had looked like a shell of himself, like he was empty and hollow and could barely count as himself any more. For a moment Egil wondered if that was how he had looked while sat in Orzammar’s prison, and then decided he didn’t want to think about that. The idea that this was how he’d looked when he’d last seen his home, that Gorim’s last memories of him where ones where he looked that empty- that was too much to bear.

When they entered Lothering, Alistair spoke. His words were awkward and stiff, like he really had been emptied of his spirit, only coming back to himself after he had forgotten what it was like to have a body. But they were words, and after a while there was enough of the life he’d had back at Ostagar in his words that Egil felt a wave of relief. If it was true that he and Alistair were the last Grey Wardens left in Ferelden - and he prayed to the Stone it wasn’t- then everything fell to them. And if Alistair weren’t willing and ready and able to make those decisions, then that meant everything fell to Egil. And in truth? Egil didn’t know if he trusted himself to want to live enough to see through what had to done.

“Well, there it is,” Alistair said, “Lothering. Pretty as a painting.”

The witch beside them curled her lips up in a cruel smile. “Ah, so you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you?” she said, “Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?”

 _In another life,_ Egil thought, _she would have made a wonderful deshyr._ She was elegant- in her own way- able to trade barbs like her tongue was as covered in thorns as their path through the Wilds had seemed to be. Her mind was sharp as those thorns too. Egil knew little of magic but even then the way she talked about it, the ease and grace with which she was able to cast her spells, it all seemed to have so much more weight and power to it than a hedge mage in the woods should be able to have. Her social skills on the other hand? Left something to be desired. It reminded Egil of Trian in a way- and _Stone_ , he tried to ignore the heavy ache of guilt that settled in his guts every time he thought about Trian.

He interrupted the conversation before it got even more heated. That had been one of the things he’d been best at on the Assembly floor- deescalation- and the skills seemed to transfer, because Alistair and Morrigan stopped trying to murder each other with their glares and paid attention to him.

“So,” he began. “We’re at Lothering. What’s the plan from here?”

Alistair frowned, his brow furrowing as though he were deep in thought. He reached to the deep brown leather satchel Flemeth had given them, the surface cracked from an unknowable number of years of use, touching the side of it as if to make sure it still had the treaties in it and that they hadn’t been whisked away during the journey and replaced with something else. “I think what Flemeth suggested is the best idea.” He opened the sachet just enough to touch the top of each of the three bundles of paper. “These treaties… have you looked at them?”

Egil hadn’t. Alistair had taken charge of them, clutched the papers to his side as if holding them enough could somehow bring Duncan back to him. Egil understood why. If he’d had something that tied him to home- to his father, to Trian, to Gorim, even to sodding Bhelen- he’d probably hold it just as close and just tightly. He shook his head. Alistair pulled the papers out of the bag.

They looked identical to begin with, fat stacks of parchment each bearing a wax seal stamped with a crest that Egil couldn’t recognise. Or at least, a stamped seal that Egil couldn’t recognise at first. It was hard to make out, the once brightly coloured wax faded over the years to a dusty orange, but when he saw that all-too-familiar seal, he couldn’t unsee it.

_The Orzammar royal seal._

Alistair didn’t seem to notice the way that Egil was staring at the documents, eyes widened in horror. He carried on. “There are three main groups we have treaties for. The Dalish Elves, the Circle of Magi, and the dwarves of Orzammar.” Frowning, Alistair turned to Egil, and it was then that he seemed to realise something was off. He gave a look of concern, keeping his gaze on Egil as he slotted the documents back into the bag. “I also still think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help,” he added, biting his lip slightly with concern. “We might even want to go to him first.

That suited Egil just fine. In fact, the longer he could put off going back to Orzammar, the better. Even if they allowed him into the city, the idea of everyone in the city looking at him and knowing that he’d been the one who’d ended Trian’s life, of having to look his father in the eye when they both knew it, and of having to meet Pyral’s gaze when Egil knew he’d lied to him about who was responsible for Trian’s death set off a searing, blinding, agonising pain in his heart.

“Alright,” he said, and the words came out shaking, as if somebody actually had plunged a knife into his chest. He hated it, hated how weak it made him sound and feel. “To Redcliffe it is.”


	4. Dreams

Egil had never dreamed before. It wasn’t that he was unfamiliar with the concept- when they were younger he and Bhelen used to read smuggled-in topside literature together, and if Egil had a sovereign for each time dreams were mentioned in that, he would have enough to buy out the votes of half the Assembly. Topsider writers seemed to love dreams, be the story the tale of a mighty king or just a simple romance. Once, Bhelen had half heartedly suggested betting on how many dreams were in each particular book, right before he and Egil had talked about what having a dream might actually be like.

They were children back then, Egil realised as he woke with a heavy throbbing pain behind his temple. It had only been a few years prior, and yet they were both children. Full of grand ideas and lofty fantasies and having not yet realised the world would never let them trust each other.

There always seemed to be something off about dreams in the books Egil had read, and he’d always assumed that when in them he’d be able to tell it wasn’t real. But it had all felt so real; the vast trenches filled with more darkspawn than he could count, a smell to match an army that size that had made him want to gag with every passing second, a ringing song in his head that seemed to be calling him deeper and deeper into the heart of wherever this army came from. When he’d awoken, it had been with a jolt and covered in a thick layer of sweat, gasping for breath as if he’d been underwater and just come up for air.

Alistair looked at him sympathetically from across the campfire. “Bad dreams, huh?”

It took Egil a while to find his bearings and remember where he was and why, that he wasn’t in Bownammer and that there was no song in his head. He looked down where his fingers dug into the soft dark earth and then up, to the skies that seemed to stretch on forever, devoid of light except for the two moons and a scattering of stars, trying to ground himself. Instead, he felt nausea build up within him.

“Are you alright?” Alistair’s voice cut through his head like a knife. “Do you need me to-”

“ _Fuck,_ ” was all Egil could say, and he jolted forward to try and avoid catching the bedroll when he vomited. He almost succeeded.

After he and Alistair had scraped most of it off the bedroll and he had recovered a little of his dignity, Egil spoke again. “Is that what dreams are always like?”

Alistair looked confused for a moment, before an expression recognition flashed over his face. “Oh. Of course. Dwarves don’t dream.”

“So I can take that to mean that’s not a normal dream?” Egil hoped his smile came off as wry and knowing, but all sense of him being competent and cunning had probably already been ruined by the fact Alistair had just seen him vomit over one of their bedrolls. The bodies-to-bedrolls ratio was already not in their favour, especially since Egil had somehow picked up two more travelling companions in Lothering. As if on cue, Sten glared at the two of them from across the camp, and Egil prayed to the Stone that this wasn’t going to be recorded in the notes sent back to the Arishok.

“Ah, no. This is a Warden thing,” Alistair paused, looking down at his hands as if he were trying to figure out what he was going to say. “The archdemon, it "talks" to the horde, and we feel it just as they do.” He looked back to Egil, his eyes both serious and soft all at the same time. Egil couldn’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with softness. “That's why we know this is really a Blight.”

They sat by the fire for a while, saying nothing, the only sounds the low crackling of the last embers and the faint scufflings of some animals Egil didn’t know the names of out in the fields around them. Alistair wore his heart on his sleeve, Egil realised. He was so used to being around hidden agendas and threats spoken with a smile that it was odd that the other Warden was so plain and honest with his words and his gestures. Every expression Alistair made betrayed how he felt, from the way he furrowed his brows when Morrigan insulted him to the wide grin he wore when the two of them bantered. Egil’s old self was dead, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t haunted by his past self’s ghost, and when he looked at Alistair and could see nothing except the fact that Alistair wouldn’t have lasted a day in politics, it reminded him of that. Egil looked away from Alistair and to the fire. It was easier that way, to not have to acknowledge that though he was no longer an Aeducan in name, he was still one in action.

“When I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you," Alistair said, voice soft and so full of genuine sympathy that Egil didn’t quite know how to react. And that was before he placed a hand on Egil’s shoulder. It was meant as an act of simple solidarity, a friendly gesture between comrades. But Egil still froze under the touch, all his joints stiffening. “It was scary at first for me, too.”

The last time somebody had touched him, Egil realised as his mind raced with panic, it was when Gorim said goodbye to him. And once he remembered that, it was far too easy to remember every other little touch he’d taken for granted, too tempting to think about the first time Gorim had touched him like this and how it had made him ache for more in a way that none of the nobles’ daughters his father had tried to introduce him to ever did.The only thing he could think to do was to place his hand over Alistair’s and push it off, and he reached across his torso to place his left hand over Alistair’s right.

Alistair squeezed his hand a little in response. Egil wished he wouldn’t. He swallowed, trying to think of something to say. “Are these dreams going to happen a lot?” he managed eventually, still avoiding eye contact as he gently slid Alistair’s hand off his shoulder. His mouth still tasted awful.

Alistair said nothing.


End file.
